Page 16 of Appointment in Bath

Her father regarded her for a long moment in skeptical silence. “London is an exacting place. Young ladies on the marriage mart are put under the magnifying glass. Every fault is amplified. The fashionable set would take great pleasure in making sport of your failings.”

She held her breath, waiting for him to enumerate them. Her stammer. Her shyness. Her clumsiness. Her abundant freckles. There was no need for her father to recite the laundry list. Meg was well acquainted with each and every one of her flaws.

But he didn’t recite them, thank goodness. She supposed even Henry VIII had had his rare moments of compassion.

“Are you prepared for such an experience?” he asked instead.

“No,” Meg admitted.

“Well then.”

“M-Miss Adams said I m-might have a sort of season in Bath.”

“Did she, by God. When might this have been? A final parting shot before she left us? One last attempt at bucking my authority?”

“N-No, sir. She m-mentioned it in her last letter.”

“You’re in correspondence with the woman?”

“I am.” Meg had been writing to Miss Adams faithfully since the governess’s departure. Miss Adams was busy with planning her wedding now, but still took time to reply. Her letters arrived with regularity. “Is Bath n-not a suitable alternative?”

Her father cut another chunk from his steak, sawing forcefully through the fat. Pink liquid oozed onto his plate. “Bath,” he scoffed. “What other ladies of your quality are presented in Bath?” He tossed her an acid look. “Is this the sort of nonsense that’s been occupying your attentions of late? I’m not surprised Letchford Hall is in such a sorry state.”

Meg bristled at the reprimand. It was Mrs. Church who managed the day-to-day running of the Hall, by Meg’s father’s particular designation. If he had a complaint, he should take it up with her.

“I haven’t n-noticed anything out of order,” she said.

“It’s December, is it not?” he retorted. “Where is the greenery? Where are the ribbon bows?”

She began to comprehend. “I’d thought that, since you have b-been so d-dreadfully ill, you would—”

“That I’d prefer my house to look like a mausoleum?” He helped himself to another serving of mashed potatoes. “Do you anticipate my demise, girl?”

“No, sir.”

“Then what of the holly and the ivy? What of the jolly Christmas songs on that costly pianoforte of yours?” He raised his glass to his lips. “This is what comes of having no mother to train you,” he said uncharitably. “Though she’d have been of no use in this regard. She knew nothing of what it took to be a great lady.” He took a long drink. “You have the look of her.”

It wasn’t a compliment.

Meg knew that to her soul.

After he’d been jilted by Lady Allendale, her father had married Meg’s mother, Edith. She’d been a village girl; the daughter of a widowed solicitor. Sir Frederick had wed her for no other reason than to get himself an heir. Edith had willingly done her duty, giving birth first to Meg’s brother, Roderick, and then to Meg, before dying in childbed.

Meg had never known her mother. From her infancy she’d been consigned to servants. First a wet nurse, then a nanny, and finally her governess, Miss Adams.

During all those years, Lady Edith Burton-Smythe had lain buried in the family plot in the churchyard. There were no portraits of her in the house. Not even a rough sketch to commemorate her.

Meg had no need of either to dispute her father’s claim. She knew exactly who it was she resembled.

A rare spark of temper lent an edge to her voice. “Do I, sir? I understood m-my mother to have fair hair. N-not red.”

Sir Frederick’s bloodshot eyes narrowed. “Indeed. That hair you get from me. More’s the pity.” He leaned back in his chair, his glass dangling from his fingers. His gaze drifted around the dining room with growing displeasure. “Drab winter weariness,” he muttered. “Have I not earned a measure of the joy of the season? It’s I who pay the wages. I who provide food and shelter to my servants and tenants. And to you, my girl. Don’t you forget it.”

Meg wasn’t likely to. “Yes, father.”

“I’m not dead yet. This isn’t a house of mourning. I want to see Letchford Hall as it was in Christmas’s past. The way it looked when my father was alive. Consult with Church, she’ll remember.”

“What of m-my season?”